Jaw clenched, fists too.
‘He was a rapist.’ Sitting up. Snarling it out: ‘Neil Black was a violent, drug-taking, rapist arsehole. For two days, three nights. No food, no drink, not even bathroom breaks. You happy now?’
A sigh rattled out from the gloom. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am.’
‘He’d looked so normal.’ She collapsed onto the couch again, glaring up at the fake ducts and pipes. ‘But then the worst ones always do, don’t you? Men.’
Nothing back from the good doctor — not rising to the bait.
‘His rape kit was right there, waiting in the living room. When he stole Gillian’s purse, he must’ve seen the address and the keys and thought, “Why not let myself in and case the joint?” Maybe he was going to lie in wait for her? But that wouldn’t have been as much fun, would it? He’d have missed the thrill of the chase.’
The quiet stretched again.
Stretched and stretched and stretched.
God’s sake...
McNaughton really wanted his pound of flesh, didn’t he?
‘The hospital got worried when Gillian didn’t turn up for a surgical consultation on the Monday morning. We could hear them leaving messages on the answerphone.’
‘Hi, Dr Harper? This is Sophie, from the surgical team, again? We were supposed to be meeting at ten, and it’s quarter past, and I’m just calling to make sure everything’s OK. Can you call me back to reschedule? I’ll try you on your mobile.’
The answer machine gives a long sharp beeeeeeeeep, then the only sound is Gillian’s muffled crying.
It stinks in here. The sharp-yellow stench of stale urine, mingled with dried vomit, smeared shit, and the warm-iron tang of blood. All of it oozing out of the sodden, stinking carpet.
Neil Black stretches his arms along the back of the couch, a huge joint smouldering away between his lips, nostrils swollen and dark pink as if he’s got a heavy cold. But it’s what he’s been putting up there that’s caused the problem.
A mirror sits on the coffee table in front of him, still bearing the tell-tale dusting where two powdery white lines had been less than five minutes ago. What’s left of a six-pack of Stella sits next to it, the empties rattling about beneath the table.
Cocaine to rev you up, cannabis to level you out, lager to keep you good and angry.
The bastard’s pulled on a pair of boxers, indulging in a bit of post-rape modesty.
Through in the hallway, Gillian’s mobile phone launches into its ringtone: ‘Shiny Happy People’. It jangles away to itself for thirty seconds, as if it’s never heard of irony, then falls silent as the call’s transferred to voicemail. That’ll be Sophie from the surgical team again, still wondering why Gillian hasn’t turned up...
But Gillian’s in no state to do a cardiothoracic consultation. Her face is a swollen mess of purples, blues, and greens. Both eyes puffed up like blood oranges. Dark-scarlet flakes crusting her battered lips and broken jaw. A mashed-up nose that’ll never be straight again.
The rest of her is a map of bruises.
He’s tied her hands behind her back, leaving both legs free. Not that Gillian can actually go anywhere: not with her left leg all twisted and misshapen from when the bastard stamped and stamped and stamped on her knee. Blood smeared on the inside of her thighs.
Through all of it, he hasn’t forced himself on Lucy. Not yet, anyway. Not since she woke up, stripped naked and tied to the living-room radiator — thick knots around both wrists, the rope in the middle looped behind the radiator pipe, so she can’t go anywhere as he attacks Gillian over, and over, and over again.
And while he does, he doesn’t look at the woman he’s raping, he stares at Lucy. And if she doesn’t stare back, if she dares to look away, if she doesn’t watch what he’s doing to her friend, he hurts Gillian even more.
He’s forced them both to swallow pills, but they don’t stop the horror, they just make everything fuzzy and heavy. The bastard still gets the screams that seem to turn him on so much. And with the buildings on either side being empty, there’s no one else to hear them. No one to call the police. No one but Gillian and Lucy and Neil Black.
Lucy peers at him, head hanging forwards so her hair hides her eyes. He only likes to be watched while he’s rutting away, not when he’s limp and flaccid.
Neil Black doesn’t know she’s watching him; he’s too wrapped up in whatever bastards like him think about when they’re not hurting women. Assuming he can think at all, because he’s pretty stoned right now. Eyes half closed and bloodshot, ash from his spliff crumbling onto his naked chest. Those grey flakes sticking to the suntanned sweaty skin.
‘Mmpphhh...’ He wipes the ash into curling smears. ‘You bitches don’t know you’re born. You know that, don’t you? Nah, course you don’t.’ A long draw on his joint sets the tip glowing angry orange. ‘But doesn’t matter really, does it? Nearly done here.’ Pointing at the answering machine. ‘I reckon they’re going to send someone round, sooner or later. Don’t worry, though: I’ll be long gone by then.’
He sits forwards and selects a tin of Stella. Clicks back the ring-pull and takes a deep swig. ‘I’m thinking a fire. That’ll do you, won’t it? Get rid of all that DNA and fingerprint nonsense. Just be two charred bodies, lying under a whole heap of burning rubble.’ Another swig. ‘You got any cash knocking about the place, Gillian? Course you do, you’re a big-shot doctor, right? Bet there’s all sorts of valuables in a swanky house like this, stashed away somewhere safe. You’re not going to need them, only fair that you share.’
Tears roll down Gillian’s battered face.
‘So where’s the safe, then?’ Levering himself out of the couch. ‘Well? Where — is — it?’
But all she can do is mumble.
‘ANSWER ME, BITCH!’ He hurls the tin at her head. It bounces off the side of her face, falling to the floor where it glugs out its piss-yellow froth into the carpet. Adding to the stench. ‘WHERE’S THE BLOODY SAFE?’
Lucy glares back. ‘You broke her jaw, you moron. She can’t!’
‘What did you say to me?’ Neil Black’s eyes bulge. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’
‘I said... you broke her jaw.’ Walking it back fast. ‘She... she can’t answer you.’
‘Nah, you called me a moron.’ He lunges forwards, grabs Lucy’s face in one of his rough hands, fingers digging into her bruised cheeks. Bringing his nose so close to hers that the smell of second-hand cannabis overpowers even the stink rising up from the carpet. ‘Who’s the moron now, bitch?’ Shoving her down. ‘You sluts are all the same. That cow at the depot thinks she can fire me and get away with it? Oh hell no she can’t.’ Banging Lucy’s head off the drenched carpet, setting her ears ringing. ‘Said I’m not a team player.’ Bang. ‘Said I’ve got “attitude problems”.’ Bang. ‘What even is that?’ Bang. ‘“Attitude problems”, my thick throbbing cock.’ Straddling her now. Leaning in close again. ‘Your mate’s turned a bit too... saggy for me. All used up. But I bet you’re ripe and ready, aren’t you? I’ve seen you watching me; getting all riled up and horny. Desperate for your turn.’
‘GET OFF ME!’
He slams a hand down on Lucy’s face, shoving her cheek into the damp carpet, digging his thumb into the bridge of her broken nose, making sharp-edged fireworks explode through her head. ‘Play nice and I might be kind: put you out of your misery before I torch the place.’ Neil Black sits back on his haunches. ‘But first I’m off for a slash.’